Lydia

In darkness, the Spirit of God moved over the deep.  Today was Lydia’s appointed time to be born.

The birthing team - mother, father, grandmother, and midwife - scrambled into place like an eager cast of characters lacking a rehearsed choreography.  We had only a vague idea of the plot that would unfold, leading to an eventual climax: Lydia’s birth. 

I hung big sheets of plastic on our walls and draped them over our furniture as protection from waves that would erupt from the birthing tub.  A pot of frozen Thanksgiving turkey broth joined a handful of rice, and hurriedly chopped carrots and celery, to simmer on a stove burner: eventual soup for us to eat later. 

Lydia’s dad inflated the birthing tub and hooked up the hose.  Her mom paced the floor, stopping to prance like a bloated wind-up-doll that periodically became stuck in place. Each time a contraction hit, she bent over and did an in-place dance while spewing deep breaths like Puff the Magic Dragon. 

We waited. And we waited some more.  Then we waited.

The midwife kept checking Lydia’s pulse, checking her pulse, and checking her pulse.  Locked within the womb, pressed and compressed, Lydia’s heart stressed with every contraction.  Several times there was reason to think we should pack up and head to the hospital.  At one point the midwife issued the unwelcome edict: “Let’s go.” 

The reality stung. We would abandon ship - the home birthing ship - and march right on over to climb aboard the mainstream obstetrical ship.  It was the responsible thing to do. Ultimately, however, the midwife - who was straddling a fence and thus couldn’t enforce her own decision - opted to stick with the current course and pursue ways to “get this baby OUT” sooner rather than later.  We didn’t go to the hospital.

Meanwhile, a team of intercessors prayed – family members, local friends, not-so-local friends, people who knew us and people who didn’t.  Later I found out just how many were praying.  It was a lot.

During all of this, the Spirit of God hovered over the deep. 

The midwife suggested a painful but effective hands-on procedure to speed things along.  The laboring mother agreed. It was very hard.  It was very good.

Lydia’s mother stumbled back into the tub where her husband’s strong male arms anchored his wife-in-the-pangs-of-chidbirth.  Deep again.  Deep interlocking souls.

The struggle ensued. This baby must die to the old womb-life in order to live.  In the meantime, her mother must die to herself.  To pride. To control.  To her own ability. To any shred of self. She must give way to this miracle, this emerging creation.  She must be empowered by God, or not at all.  Surely life as she knew it seemed to stop.  Everything changed; she was overtaken.  It was too much.  Participating in creation was beyond her.

Or was it?

Contractions quickened and heightened. Lydia moved.  Mother transitioned.  Gramma clutched the camera, waiting for The Moment. Tidal waves erupted amidst groans.  Onlookers jointly wrinkled their brows. The Spirit hovered over all.

In a split second - when we all least expected it - Lydia’s mother shouted a guttural, “The baby is coming out!” In the midst of her body’s pulsations, a purple form emerged underwater: Lydia.

The rest of the story, in Paul Harvey vernacular, was less dramatic and yet equally compelling.  Lydia proved to be a classic newborn without complications.  She pinked-up quickly; she breathed and cried and latched onto the breast.  She weighed in, stamped her footprint, and snuggled to sleep in her mother’s arms.

But Lydia was more than a healthy, vibrant baby.  She was also a courier of hope, of promise, of something beyond us. The presence of God pressed in upon His new little life and her delivery crew, enshrouding us with Himself.  In the midst of Lydia’s transition from life (in the womb) to life (in the world), He redefined the essence of life on earth as a thirst or passion - not for self-defined goals, but rather for more of the Giver of life Himself.

This evening the memories linger. Everyone has gone home and I’m here alone, debriefing.  Giant sheets of plastic still hang from the walls.  Dirty soup bowls stand stacked like the leaning tower of Pisa. 

But important applications are imbedded in today’s experience.  As eternal beings, we will all pass from life (in the world) to life (in the afterlife).  Are we ready?  What of that passage, and what will define our new life?  Do we understand the reality of eternal oneness with God, or else eternal alienation from Him? Who will birth us on the other side, and what is our destiny in that place? In my opinion, one freshly sent from the Father, knows the answers.  Her name, as you might guess, is Lydia.